


What about the drink?

by BoredPsychopath_JC



Category: London Spy
Genre: Alex POV is always my cup of tea, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, I have two WIP posted here for this fandom I know, I won't stop writing for this fandom, M/M, Mentions of drug usage (like canon), Romance, but this is how I tune myself to continue them again, every (good) love story starts with a cuppa, similar first meeting but in a cafe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7537789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredPsychopath_JC/pseuds/BoredPsychopath_JC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Alex and Danny first meet in a cafe?</p><p>OR... The first memorable thing Alex has on his first day as a barista is a handsome stranger stumbling into his cafe before opening hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What about the drink?

**Author's Note:**

> I love [skylights’ 00Q coffee shop AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4300527/chapters/9746325) too much that I wanna write how another favourite OTP of mine first meet in a cafe because of London’s unpredictable weather :) It's also an excuse for me to reuse TRS' beautiful dialogues. I OWN NOTHING. 
> 
> For S, who makes the best Lady Grey tea every bloody time and is also a sucker for coffee shop AU <3 <3

Alex stares out through the spotless windows, lost in trivial thoughts. Ominous greyish sky outside foretells rainstorm in any time. That's nothing surprising.

As usual, sleep hasn't come to him, yet the sleepless hours can be rather useful today. To settle himself better in the new workplace, he found himself at the cafe 57 minutes before sunrise. 

At this moment, all the cleaned and dried mugs line up perfectly on the racks. The dishes and cutleries in the cupboard can't be more organised. The espresso machine has been installed and checked. Its various parts are in place and the metal surfaces shiny under soft white light. He might have spent a minute longer than intended to rearrange the sandwiches and muffins in the display fridge.

Back inside the counter, cartons of various dairy products and soya milk are stored in the fridge, according to their best-before dates. He has double-checked that himself. 

All the things in his cafe- all that he could've thought of- are laid out as orderly as possible. He looks around again, smoothing the caresses on his grey apron.

It really isn’t about his nerves. Better be thorough than missing things.

It’s his first day as a barista. He has mastered the craft of brewing various caffeinated drinks under a month. He’s a quick learner whenever he can grasp the underlying mechanisms. To him, a perfect cup of coffee is the result of accurate volume of various liquids at their respectively precise temperatures, plus an exact amounts of ground beans and optional syrups for well-timed brewing. By replacing _ground bean_ with teabags or cacao powder in that equation, one will have perfect tea or chocolate. When he hits the optimal conditions, it's virtually impossible to deviate much from the expected outcome. The next cups are just repeats of the processes that made that first cup, with precision. As for latte art, like any other techniques, practice makes perfect. He'd been trained for years to have steady hands for other delicate and swift tasks. Whirling milk froth into dark brown liquid to form patterns actually calms his often overloaded mind.

He's indeed ready for all the tasks. Affirmative. 

He doesn't jump when the downpour outside intrudes the early morning stillness around him. It irks him just a bit when the weather finally denies his wish for a sunny start. He's quite certain he's alone so he allows a frown. With a sigh- he's certainly on his own in the empty cafe- he shuts away the rare irrational desire for good omen, distracting himself with somewhat unnecessary rearrangement of newspapers near the counter. 

He thinks of putting Bach's cello sonatas on the audio system. It'd be soothing. The downside is that it'd give away some part of his private life. That's undesirable.  So he simply goes to wash away the newspaper ink on his hands, drying them with a towel before wiping the droplets on the stainless steel tap. He frowns again, realising he has nothing meaningful to do —

The doorbell tinkles. Someone just pushed open the door. Rather sharply. Now this _is_ surprising.

Alex turns as slowly as possible, intending for a polite mask to settle naturally on his features. “Sorry, we’re still clo—“

He stops abruptly at the sight of his cafe's entrance, more or less 4 meters away from him.

There stands a startled handsome man in his late twenties. Water is dripping from his black leather jacket. Water pools on the floor tiles. Some drips down from the man's messy hair. Instead of getting irritated, he's relieved he’s in at such an ungodly hour. Otherwise, the stranger would've completely soaked in the rain. There's nothing to shelter anyone from the foul weather around the Lambeth bridge. In fact, more than half of that orange shirt on the stranger's slender frame has been stained nearly brown by the rainwater, making its owner’s shallow quick breaths underneath more prominent.

Alex wills his stare away. He does allow himself an extra quick and practical glance over that personable figure. The intruder is unarmed.

An overwhelming evidence suggests that the visitor is a harmless local coming down from drugs. One can’t fake the physiological responses to that extent. Alex is very familiar with those parameters, thanks to his leisure researches. Nonetheless, he distances himself casually to allow more distance between them. He needs space to analyse properly.

And as a _proper barista and one of the cafe's co-owner_ , he can be drawn to how vulnerable the _unexpected guest_ looks. Getting caught in the rain simply can't rationally explain such a daunting demeanour, now a bit more than 5 meters away from him.

Alex can't bring himself execute his plan of gesturing at the _**CLOSED**_ plate on the door. Strangely, that thought has been vanishing as naturally as the gradual decrease in the wretched man’s breathing rate. There’re more eye blinks, which catches Alex’s attention to those long eyelashes. Silence stretches, only penetrated by occasional raindrops blown on the window pane. The irregular rhythm only makes Alex more unrest. He's quite certain that he mystery unfolding in front of his eyes fascinates him. Before he's got carried away, his brain thankfully has taken notes that are helpful for predicting most of the possibilities and scenarios. He's aware of its unusual slowness- he blames the lack of caffeine in his system.

It’s unfair that the stranger doesn’t seem as perturbed. Water is still dripping. Raindrops still hit on the window panes.  Alex lets out a quiet breath when he’s finally positive about two points:

1) They both need time. (Explanations for the eyewitness and a moment of rest for the visitor to be properly read.)  
2) Coffee isn’t the best solution for the man. (If Alex himself wants to lower the probability of needing external interferences in the form of emergency services.)

So Alex strides to the hot water dispenser and sets a ginger and lemon teabag in a takeaway paper cup, switching on the timer. The beep doesn't alarm the lost man. Alex doesn't have the usual pleasant feeling whenever he deems his training pay off. The only thought is, indeed strangely, hoping the other man remain there. Watching from the corner of his eyes, he catches the man’s first major motion since his entrance.

A shaky hand is raised mid-air, its grip too loose for something held in the palm. 

A small black object slides and drops on the floor with a crack, just close by the small pool of rainwater.

It’s a mobile phone. Or what used to be one. It's shattered into pieces. The man kneels down slowly, as if contemplating whether he should pick them up. Alex finds himself swiftly in front of the helpless man, sitting on his heels and gathering anything he can.

Alex hands some bits out as a kind gesture. Their finger brushes unintentionally. 

It isn't awkward. The cold finger tips have the same effect as the first sip of a coffee in mornings, the caffeine slipping in his veins.

When those distracted olive grey eyes looks up, Alex can only wish that his pupils don't dilate. There's clearly a shade gratitude amid other sentiments. The resultant emotions elicited are too overwhelming to behold. It's alarming. He's the first to look away, nearly having given away something with his face. His hands rest on his apron again.

And at such a closeness, he notices the faint weed cigarette from the mysterious man. Before his olfactory system picks up the ginger and citric fragrant nearby, his visual system- how exactly he has no idea- inform him a droplet of sweat or rain- again he has no idea- sliding from the man's fringe to his cheekbone.

Probably slower than reflex action, he reaches out and wipes it away with his index finger. As gently as he can.

He still feels those green eyes searching his, hopefully, blank face. He eyes at the drop of liquid on his finger tip, startled. The other's gaze remains unflinching. He wonders what goes on in the other mind.

Then his breath catches at the realisation. What he had never done is done. In front of a strange and vulnerable man.

_ Why on earth — ? _

He swiftly wipes his finger on his apron, willing the speed to cover his unusual clumsiness. He can convince himself later he's just playing the role of a _caring barista_. Worse, it took God knows how long for him to notice an abandoned cuppa on the floor nearby. He has given so much away in under 3 minutes 30 seconds. How can he slip that much?

He knows perhaps too well that he isn’t good at interacting with people. He didn't complain when they decided to place him behind the espresso machine. Unfortunately, the barista-related or other previous training are useless for this type of encounter. The infuriating man doesn't cringe away after these all.

There they are, still squatting at their respective spots. The man's emotional stare isn't unnerving at all, though past experiences in awkward social situations- no physical contacts involved of course- were probably more than enough enough to make him flee as speedily and unsuspiciously as possible. He wonders if it's the weed cigarette to blame. He dismisses such a ridiculous thought at once.

Simply put, Alex has never met someone with such a pair of expressive and unguarded eyes. He doesn't know how to deal with such discovery. At this moment, he’s catalogued all the observations already but he can't tell if the broken man in front is improving. 

The glued situation is maddening.  He weighs his options, trying to steady himself.

Yet, against his better judgement, a burning question rolls off his tongue first.  
  
“Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine. If you knew me, you’d know I’m always fine.” A weak nod follows an immediate response. 

_Liar._ Alex is excellent when it comes to identify a lie. There’re always hints when people lie. Alex frantically searches for a proper reply—

This time, the damned timer's loud beeps jolt Alex.

He immediately reaches for the tea, the only damned thing that witnessed the strange exchange. He’s relieved his hands are steady when he intrudes the other man's personal space again, just to give him the cuppa. Nothing more.

The puzzling man accepts without a word. 

Alex can still read a lot in those pleasing eyes and that free hand cradling the cup. He’s likely closer and closer to the centre of the mystery. He can't quite tear himself away. Not now. Perhaps one more gesture or two will be sufficient for a proper decipherment—

“Morning, Joe! Always the earliest! How can you folks tolerate his goddamn weather? ” A voice calls from the back of the storage room. 

Of course someone will enter through the backdoor. There’re habits one brings to a new role on the other side of the Atlantic. Alex couldn’t help a frown, probably the last one of the day. He hides it as he stands up.

So that's it.

Still a bit dazed, the man opposite him notices, shoving the remains of the mobile in his pockets. He gets up. The paper cup remains firmly in his hands. Alex is actually surprised that his visitor can pick up the cue to leave in such a state.

Looking through the window again, he, a over-caring _barista_ , feels relieved to see the downpour become drizzle. He also notices unease and sadness from the faint reflection.  There's no time to ponder on that observation. He files it away with the strange encounter.

Without missing a beat, he nods to the visitor half-heartedly, his mind already forced on retrieving the mop and creating a chance for the visitor to leave unnoticed. He's nearly stopped on his track by four words.  
  
“What about the drink?” The stranger does have a pleasing voice, even when in a near whisper. His hands remain clinging onto the takeaway cup, the thumbs rubbing over the carton sleeve.

This is the last image Alex files away. Hopefully it's an objective judgment that the man looks even better than when he rushed in.

“You can keep it,” Alex replied softly, no longer facing this enigma. No one else is meant to overhear this. Fortunately, the colleague is heard shuffling things in the storage room. 

In truth, he can't confirm but still feels a special gaze lingering on his back. He didn't see him out. It's the best for both of them.

He drowns the doorbell's tingle by intentionally knocking the mop bucket on the wall.  He does try to put all his thoughts solely on erasing the evidence of a wretched man standing half-soaked at the door.  It’s a weird feeling for someone like Alex, but he deems the visitor to be trustable just from the brief exchange. He rarely met someone so unguarded, so easy to read. 

He chides himself immediately, scrubbing the floor harder than needed. People deceive and change- he knows too well- unlike equations for fine coffees. Meanwhile, he'll just overlook some of the reasons behind the decision of not telling others about that visit. He does regret a bit that he hasn’t asked for a name. He can unquestionably look it up, if he wants. He'll decide later after _work_.

If he dares indulge himself, his reliable brain will inform him of an arbitrarily small probability. The intriguing man will visit again soon. 

 

Then, probably, he'll tell him his name.

**Author's Note:**

>  If you can't spot the differences between their encounter here and in canon, a rewatch is in order! ~~[promotion] We'll have a watch party to relieve the heartbreak #screwthecanon2016. Just let me know- I’ll keep you updated once we confirm the dates and time.~~
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://boredpsychopath-jc.tumblr.com/) if you need ranting over _London Cry._
> 
> Thanks for reading. *Pssst* Kudos and comments are the tea for my soul :'D


End file.
